<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Between the Porch and the Altar by Findswoman</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24664576">Between the Porch and the Altar</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman'>Findswoman</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Gand Series [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftereffects of violence, Blood, Gand - Freeform, Gand Findsman, Gand Findsmen, Gand culture and religion, Gen, Imperial invasion, Mutilation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:01:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24664576</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A Gand Findswoman struggles to carry on during the Imperial invasion of her homeworld.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Gand Series [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783291</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Between the Porch and the Altar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written in June 2016 for the OC Revolution <a href="https://boards.theforce.net/posts/50060902">Spring 2016 challenge</a>. I thank Kahara_the_Ghostly_Galoomp for beta reading. This story has been translated into French by yahiko, and that version may be read <a href="https://www.fanfictions.fr/fanfictions/star-wars/9475_entre-le-portique-et-l-autel/32686_entre-le-portique-et-l-autel/lire.html">here</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Let the priests, the ministers of the Lord, weep between the porch and the altar, and let them say: “Spare thy people, O Lord, and give not thy heritage to reproach . . .”</em><br/>—Joel 2:17 (JPS 1917)</p><hr/><p>In the Great Temple of Gand, which floated serenely on its own pocket colony above the north pole of that eternally mysterious gas giant, all was desolate, mournful, uncertain. The halls that once echoed with the footfalls of Findsmen’s boots and rang with the sound of Findsmen’s chanting now merely rustled weakly with weeping and prayer—or had fallen silent altogether.<br/><br/>For the invaders had come: the mammalian, Human invaders in the gigantic wedge-shaped ships, who had driven the Sacred Visionary Mists from the skies and then boasted to the monarch, the magnates, and the merchants that their gray metal boxes could track missing beings and objects better than the mystical talent of the Findsmen.<br/><br/>In one of those silent hallways, bounded by a statue of Trynfor the Holy Madman at one end and by one of Isthien the Sacred Healer at the other, a wall-lamp cast its flickering blue-gray light upon a bundle of robes huddled against the cold stone wall: the hunched form of a young Findswoman.<br/><br/>Long ago the Mists had shown her everything that would come to her homeworld: the spindly hovering probe droids, the immense, bladelike wedges piercing and dispersing the Mists of Gand, the plasteel soldiers marching rank on rank through the Sacred Capital. They had warned her of the grief and distress that would come over her and her fellow Findsmen.<br/><br/>And now They were scattered, and would show her no more.<br/><br/>She could do nothing now but sit there, with her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, and the golden light of her compound eyes buried in her arms and knees, and think of those past visions. She did not know how long she had been sitting. Perhaps it had been days. Or perhaps weeks; it no longer mattered. Had the invaders’ hideous atmosphere-modification devices had sapped away time itself along with the Mists? Perhaps so; without Them, there was no longer any difference between hours, seasons, revolutions, eons.<br/><br/>Again and again she strained to catch some wisp of intuition from the Sacred Visionary Mists of her world. Again and again her mystical senses poured themselves out to Them like a lost <em>gree-graak </em>chick crying for its mother. “How long?” she asked Them, again and again—how long till she would know what would become of herself, her fellow Findsmen, her homeworld, the Galaxy? It was a physical as well as a mental effort that sapped the energy from her slight frame.<br/><br/>But it was all to no avail, for the Mists were too weakened to show her anything. All her meditative powers were useless now. All the hours she had spent drilling them, under the supervision of her Findsmasters, had gone for naught.<br/><br/>(She thought of those Findsmasters: the kind, stooped elder with the friendly eyes, the stately Findslady revered by all, even the oversized old oaf who never stopped complaining about his students. She had seen them, too, crouched in the temple’s labyrinthine halls; she had knelt beside each of them, offering words and gestures of comfort, offering prayers and healing chants. Only one of them had replied to her. But there was a fourth, too, who was at once Findsmaster, <em>zaviir, tarnuur,</em> promised one . . . and where now was the flash of his proud silver eyes, the grip of his claws? Oh, for the simplest Mist Query, the simplest Ritual of Wayseeking to hunt him down!)<br/><br/>At least there was still Stillness of the Fog, the Findsman’s calming discipline. Even if the Mists of Gand had been weakened, perhaps she could at least commune with her own Inner Mists this way—as well as rest from the exertion of her futile meditations.<br/><br/>There were six levels of Stillness of the Fog, ranging from simple relaxation at the first level to the temporary shutdown of vital functions at the sixth—the feigned-death state known also as Mortal Stillness. One by one, as the hours passed, she engaged each of them. Like rippling pond waters or churning fogs calming to stillness, her Inner Mists first settled themselves into the simple relaxation, then into the slightly deeper relaxation. Next came the transition to the sleeplike trance, then the coma-like trance. For those hours the only motion in that hallway had been that of the flickering lamp.<br/><br/>At last she concentrated her Inner Mists into the core of her lungs, building toward the final, vital mystical effort that would propel her into the death-like trance of Mortal Stillness. She drew a deep breath in, filling her lungs as she recited the mystical formulas in her mind. Then she exhaled sharply, crumpling to the ground in an amorphous heap of robes.<br/><br/>But was not blue-gray haze before her the light of the hall lamp? Was that not the statue of Trynfor looming upside down in one facet of her compound eyes, the statue of Isthien in another? Was not her heart still beating? Were even her Inner Mists too weak to cross over into the realm of Mortal Stillness?<br/><br/>And was not a voice speaking to her?<br/><br/>“Findslady Telfien!”<br/><br/>Her name, her long-silent name! At its sound she pulled herself up and blinked her nictitating membranes. Crouched before her was a female Temple servant in the customary slate-blue uniform—one she recognized, who had shown her kindness in the past—with her hands spread in a pleading gesture.<br/><br/>“Please come! There is one who is calling for you!”<br/><br/>“Telfien shall come.” And she rose and walked with the servant down the hallway, in the direction of the statue of Trynfor.</p><hr/><p>Telfien walked with the servant through the halls of the Great Temple. All was as the Mists had first shown her. Proud Findsmen, erudite Findsmasters, eminent Elders, and fledgling apprentices sat crouched in degenerate grief in the temple hallways, just as she herself had done: bent over, trembling, weeping, praying, striking their breasts, clawing their clothing. And just as she herself had, they had stopped in their places out of sheer hopelessness and fatigue. Without the Mists, there was no longer any use in making it all the way to their wonted teaching rooms, meditation chambers, chapels, or garden haunts.<br/><br/>She went over to offer them help and comfort, but the servant pulled her gently away.<br/><br/>Further on, her antennae twitched at a toxic chemical scent wafting from a group of apprentices who sat particularly still, leaning against each other and against a support column. The chitin plates of their hands, feet, and faces were warped, peeling, and corroded; Telfien recognized the effects of poison distilled from the <em>bruugaan</em> tree. Just beyond that, an elder Findsman in ceremonial garb was slumped against the archway leading to the Temple’s main sanctum. His head hung limply, in sleeplike calm, above a gaping, blackened hole in his thorax. Telfien noticed the half-molten barrel of an energy weapon peeking from the hole and realized what had happened: he had set his blaster to overload quietly within the inner pocket of his robes.<br/><br/>But again the servant hurried her on with impatient claw-taps on her shoulder.<br/><br/>At last they came to the gateway that led out to the Temple gardens. The servant led Telfien outside onto a broad, arched portico, into a night that was an unnaturally solid, mistless black.<br/><br/>“Here.”<br/><br/>A figure in Findsman’s robes sat against one of the columns, writhing and groaning in violent pain as brown blood oozed copiously from a wound in his shoulder. Telfien could not see much of his face, for his head was thrown back and to the side at a peculiar and uncomfortable-looking angle. Another healing servant, this one male, sat beside him and was applying bacta pads to the wound, but it seemed to be doing little good. A large shockstaff lay on the ground a little ways off, its once-sharp tip bent and blunted. Farther away two of the white plasteel invaders lay piled on top of each other, motionless.<br/><br/>“A squadron of the . . . invaders managed to get into the garden,” the servant accompanying Telfien explained. “He went against them . . . he eliminated two of them, as you see, but one of the others—”<br/><br/>She stopped suddenly. The wounded Findsman was now sitting upright, looking directly at Telfien through glassy, delirious silver eyes. The Findswoman started at the sight of those eyes, for there was something familiar about them—but they shone from a face whose plates were so scraped, gashed, and dislodged as to be unrecognizable.<br/><br/>“Telf—” he began. The name was instantly swallowed up in another paroxysm of groans, prompting the healing servant to redouble his efforts with the bacta. “Sacred scion . . . you are here . . .”<br/><br/>“Y-yes, yes, she is . . .” Those eyes, that face . . . could it be . . . but it couldn’t be . . . or could it?<br/><br/>“By the ancient power that dwells within you . . . h-help this Gand!”<br/><br/>Telfien looked down at her hands. She knew what he wanted her to do; she had known since she had first seen him. Would it even be possible with the Mists in such a weakened state, with herself in such a weakened state? But she had to try. A Gand life depended on it.<br/><br/>“Telfien shall do her best.”<br/><br/>The healing servant with the bacta made room for her as she knelt beside the Findsman, placed her hands gently over his wound, and channeled all that remained of her intuitive energy toward it. Minutes passed. He continued to twitch and writhe—was it working?—and was he really—? But it was no use wondering that now. All she could do was ensure her hold on him would not slip, despite her own flagging energy.<br/><br/>More minutes passed. Perhaps, against all odds, it was finally having some effect: he was calmer now, the blood flow was slowing, new tissue was beginning to regenerate. She would give it a little longer, till it was almost healed, and then—<br/><br/>Without moving her hands from their place over his wound, she leaned in close to his face and whispered a single, questioning name.<br/><br/>He twitched and ground his outer mandibles. “Yes?” he growled. “What do you want to know about that befoggèd traitorous upstart?”<br/><br/>Telfien started at these words but remained as calm as she could. “Apologies—Telfien merely wondered—”<br/><br/>“You mistook this Gand”—he reared up and tapped his chest with his claws—“for him, didn’t you?”<br/><br/>“Apologies again—now if Telfien may ask you kindly to remain still—”<br/><br/>“It would certainly not be the first time someone has had that misconception,” the Findsman grumbled as he relaxed again onto the flagstones of the porch. Telfien resumed her pressure on his wound. “But he, he shall suffer, that <em>Uncanny One</em> . . . because of his treachery Gand has no more Guardian to protect her secrets from the invader . . . his power joined with <em>yours</em>”—he thrust a claw at Telfien—“would have saved his people and his Mists . . . oh, but those who reject their homeworld will be rejected by their homeworld—you shall see! YOU—SHALL—SEE!”<br/><br/>With these last words he sprang up with surprising energy and vehemence, causing Telfien to tumble to the ground. Then he stormed off into the temple. The two healing servants hurried after him; the gate shut with a crash.<br/><br/>Only Telfien remained behind on the stony ground, immobile from the pure shock of what she had heard. The dire words of the wounded Findsman (whose wound was not yet fully healed!) still reverberated through her whole being: her mind and soul, but also her lungs, her heart, her deepest core.<br/><br/><em>Traitorous—upstart—suffer—treachery—reject—rejected—YOU SHALL SEE!</em><br/><br/>Their relentless ring seemed to freeze her blood in its very path and to strangle her internal organs, constricting the motion of her blood and breath till they stopped altogether. The nictitating membranes of her eyes flickered and closed; her limbs and head flopped limply to the side.<br/><br/>And Telfien recognized the feeling and abandoned herself to it: Mortal Stillness had come at last.</p><hr/><p>Some time later, two Imperial stormtroopers happened upon what looked like a body lying on the Temple portico.<br/><br/>“Hey, this isn’t the same one!” expostulated the first, prodding the immobile, robed form with a plasteel boot.<br/><br/>“You’re right, it’s not.” His comrade seemed equally bewildered.<br/><br/>“Where’d the other one go?”<br/><br/>“No idea. But who cares? Look at <em>that.</em>” He prodded with his boot at the green brocaded sash that encircled the presumed corpse’s waist. “Wouldn’t that make a nice gift for Moff Waddsley?”<br/><br/>“Oh yeah! She can wear it with her green Deyor gown!” He dropped to his knees and began clumsily to unwrap the sash, which he then stuffed into one of his supply pouches.<br/><br/>“Just make sure you give it to a laundry droid when we get back shipboard. Get the ammonia smell out, y’know.”<br/><br/>“Yeah, sure.”<br/><br/>Giving the body one last kick, they walked off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For detailed notes on fanon, borrowings, influences, etc., please see the "Notes" spoiler at the end of <a href="https://boards.theforce.net/threads/between-the-porch-and-the-altar-oc-challenge-tie-in-to-the-book-of-gand.50041256/">the posting of this story on JCF Fanfic</a>. (I usually would copy them over here to AO3, but there are just too many this time.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>